


brilliant and terrible thing

by verbose_vespertine



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Psychological Torture, Vero'razimiri'vosis "Raz" (original character), aka state-sanctioned torture, the loyalty programming version of conversion therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23397178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verbose_vespertine/pseuds/verbose_vespertine
Summary: Shara Jenn was made to work for Imperial Intelligence. If they break her loyalty programming, if they take the Empire from her, what is left behind?
Relationships: Female Imperial Agent | Cipher Nine/Watcher Two | Shara Jenn, Imperial Agent | Cipher Nine/Watcher Two | Shara Jenn
Comments: 9
Kudos: 19





	brilliant and terrible thing

**Author's Note:**

> (Note that some dialogue in this work is partially lifted from in-game dialogue. Spoilers for the Imperial Agent Shadow of Revan side quest on Rishi if you haven't played that one)

When the Republic comes to Imperial Intelligence—Shara refusesto think of it as _Sith_ Intelligence—she is not ready for them. Sure, she is _prepared_ for them, she took preventative measures, but she is not _personally_ ready for the attack. It’s a joint military and SIS strike team, and they’ve even got a few Jedi with them (and their disguises as Imperial troopers and officers are good, but their posture is all wrong), but they’ll find it’s overkill.

Bathed in a green glow from the security monitors surrounding her desk, Shara watches as the strike team hits the landing pad in front of the Citadel and retrieves a blaster from the desk drawer. She hopes she made the right choice by sending so many of the Watchers, Minders, and Fixers off-world. She might have crippled Intelligence, but she would rather see the Agency disabled temporarily by her own hand than watch the Republic take them down. The decent operatives would keep them running, even without a functioning central office issuing orders. They could survive this, even if she didn’t. She had been helpless before when the Star Cabal had put her and three Watchers out of commission in one hit, and that’s how they had ended up with the mess of _Sith_ Intelligence.

After checking that she still has a knife tucked securely against her thigh, she props her elbows on the desk and steeples her fingers against her lips. Had she done enough? Shara leaves the office and steps into the central atrium. A small contingent of her employees are scattered in strategic, if makeshift, perches for sniping incoming hostiles.

“Sir,” A gruff older man with military bearing greets Shara briefly before turning his eyes back to the entrance. She recognizes him as Fixer Twelve.

Shara moves to kneel beside the Fixer at the computer terminal he is using for cover.

“I appreciate the gesture, Sir, but those of us who stayed have got military backgrounds before we were Intelligence. Wouldn’t do for our Keeper to go down today. Not again.” Fixer Twelve smiles wryly and motions to a younger man sheltering by the central holoterminal.

The other man, an agent Shara doesn’t know well, salutes her.

“Thank you, Fixer Twelve.” Shara offers her hand to the Fixer, and he shakes it firmly.

With a hand at the small of her back, the agent ushers Shara out of the building. She wants to swat his hand away; he pushes her too quickly through winding halls to a protected side entrance where private taxis wait for higher ranking officials.

“There’s no need for you to accompany me any further, Agent,” Shara says sternly when the young agent starts to step into the taxi behind her.

“Fixer insisted, sir,” the agent protests.

“Now _I’m_ insisting, and I outrank him. I appreciate your eagerness, but I actually _can_ take care of myself.”

Stepping out of the taxi on the landing pad closest to her neighborhood, Shara’s mind is running down likely outcomes of her next steps. She could go to the Dark Council but the lack of any of her Sith coworkers in the building today at _Sith_ Intelligence suggests to her that they were operating on the same intel she had without sharing it with her—the difference being that she would likely be fired if not outright killed for not sharing. They were either still reeling too much from Malgus’s stunt, vying to fill new power voids, or they honestly didn’t care what happened to Intelligence. Perhaps they saw its loss as another way to strike at Darth Zhorrid for failing to control the agency in her sphere.

No, the Council wouldn’t be much help. She could just run up to her flat, grab the go-bag by the door, cut her losses, and go find her Cipher Nine to wait out this storm (at least until the storm that would follow). The latter option feels safer.

The second her door closes behind her, Shara knows something is wrong. A window is open somewhere, letting in warm, heavy air. Not only is there someone in her flat, but from the damp, earthy smell, he’s tracked in mud from the Kaasi jungle—why couldn’t he be civil and come in through the streets and the front door like the strike team at HQ? And how did he find her flat in the first place? Hardly any of her colleagues know where Shara lives. Her colleagues...the agent, the new one, the one she didn’t know, how long had he been working for them? Had he been the one to follow Shara home one of the rare nights she had even _gone_ home, distracted with worry and only focused on a quick shower, maybe closing her eyes for five minutes... 

A flash of lightning illuminates the man standing in Shara’s living room, blaster pointed almost lazily at her chest.

“Trant.” Shara doesn’t try to keep the venom out of her voice when she speaks his name.

“Lovely to see you too, Shara.” Marcus Trant steps forward, flicking on a light switch and revealing two SIS agents in her kitchen, as well as two soldiers, one in the hallway and one in the far corner of the room, all with weapons drawn and leveled at her.

 _Cowards. How much of a fight do they think I’m going to put up?_ Without directly looking at them, she focuses briefly on the men aiming their weapons at her to distract herself from Trant’s flippant use of her given name. The Republic is casual with naming their personnel, wanting all of their top men recognized for their service, but here they are more careful, more _polite_. It is not his to call her that name, but she will not let it shake her.

Closing the distance to her, Trant gently removes Shara’s blaster from her hand before he lowers his own blaster and stands at ease before her. Her eyes flick down to the mud on his boots, and she bites back her distaste. He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care about the knife on her thigh, perhaps assuming she’d never use it with so many guns still trained on her. 

“It’s going to feel good bringing you in after your little bitch took out one of my best teams.”

Shara considers spitting on him but decides not to give him the satisfaction of getting under her skin. “Your team practically took themselves out. It was a mercy that she killed them.”

“Unlike you, I actually care about what happens to my operatives.”

Shara smiles at Trant, wondering if her knife is sharp enough to gut him. She would probably die for her trouble if she did, but could do it. Cipher would. “You know she’ll kill you for this.”

“We would love for her to try it.” Trant inclines his head almost imperceptibly toward one of the agents in the kitchen and Shara hears the short whine of a wrist-mounted launcher in the instant before the dart hits her neck and she falls heavily into Trant’s arms.

——

Following the fall of Sith Intelligence, Cipher Nine receives one of the strangest communications she’s ever gotten over the course of her very strange career. A cagey holocall from Darth Marr inviting her to Makeb, even though Raz never expected to hear directly from a Darth again after her involvement on Ilum.

She docks her ship on Makeb’s orbital station, eyeing the planet in crisis as though it will explode if she looks at it too hard; she winces at the sound of her boots clomping too heavily on the metal floor in the echo chamber of the airlock. The station is a standard Imperial creation, hard lines and sharp blue lights, ensigns scurrying like rats. Some of the wiser ones recognize her uniform, and get out of her way.

A protocol droid greets Raz as warmly as she expects a Darth’s protocol droid can, and leads her to the temporary home Marr has made for himself on the orbital station.

“Cipher Nine,” Marr says, turning to face her. It’s more respect than she gets from most Sith. “Your reputation precedes you.”

Raz nods in greeting. It’s the smallest amount of respect she can show.

“You are here as an independent agent, because you are the best,” Marr tells her, standing at military posture, “and because you are all that remains of Imperial Intelligence.”

Those words hit like a physical blow. She appreciates the sentiment— _Sith Intelligence_ always makes her want to vomit—but the implication that she is the sole survivor hurts through her entire chest. The Minister, the Watchers, _Shara_. Where are they, what’s happened to them, are they safe? Surely Marr was misinformed about how bad it had been.

All she shows of it is a nonchalant blink.

“A single independent source reporting on the incident,” Marr continues, “told us that minimal Imperial personnel were actually present in the Citadel during the raid on Intelligence Headquarters.”

Raz clenches and unclenches her jaw. The version of the report she’d gotten her hands on, heavily redacted, had almost made the raid sound like a training exercise rather than the successful dissolution of her Agency. With such limited reporting and the fact that neither she nor Darth Marr has actually been back to Dromund Kaas yet to see the state of things for themselves, Raz doesn’t know what to believe.

“This will make reallocation efforts easier,” Marr swipes a hand towards the window, “but the higher personnel of Intelligence, our Keeper, our other Cipher agents, are either among the casualties or unaccounted for. There is no way to find them.”

“The Minister?” Raz asks. Her thoughts are scattered. “The Watchers who were damaged by the Star Cabal? _Any_ word?”

“The Minister was...relieved of his duties before the attack. Your other colleagues remain dispersed. As I said, functionally, _you_ are all that remains,” Marr replies, waving a hand again and turning away. All of Raz’s alarms go off. “The pressing issue now, for our Empire and for the new Sith Intelligence, is Makeb and its resources.”

Raz listens to the briefing with half her mind still whirring over the attack on Intelligence. She has to force herself to assume that Shara is safe so that she can focus, so that she can be Cipher Nine and do her best work for the Empire. The briefing doesn’t take long; she memorizes the locations that Marr gives her, the delicate politics which won’t matter anymore if the place explodes. All her equipment in place, she strides out onto the doomed planet to do her job without worrying about her… about Shara.

While he does not approve of her methods, Raz impresses Darth Marr with her work on Makeb. Begrudgingly, Raz finds herself liking Marr, but does not trust him.

——

“Sir, prisoner’s awake.”

Shara wonders what finally gave it away to the SIS operative watching her that the sleep dart had worn off. She had spent several minutes listening to inane conversation between the agents—they are careless with information in the SIS, not that any of what they had discussed was particularly _useful_ information, but they had used what sounded like each others’ given rather than code names, and had dropped several personal details Shara could have mentally filed away on them if she cared to. Their conversation had provided an almost soothing white noise while Shara assessed her current situation: sitting on a hard bench, wrists cuffed in front of her, breathing cool but stale recirculated air.

When she opens her eyes, she finds Trant standing in front of her. He pulls out a chair from a nearby table, and when he sits, he leans forward so that they are eye-to-eye with each other. She sits as straight-backed as she can, clasps her hands in her lap.

“Good to see you awake, Shara. Let’s chat.”

Shara hates the fake intimacy of the Republic, of him using her name. They don’t know each other, they hardly even know _of_ each other enough to owe each other the professional courtesy using each others’ titles.

“I appreciate your hospitality, Trant.” She manages to keep a relatively civil tone.

“Director to Director, I’d like to level with you, Shara. This has been a banner day for the Republic, and I do not think your organization is going to recover from it any time soon.” He waves a hand dismissively. “Yeah, sure, they’ll recover _eventually_ , but those Sith sure like to make a mess of things, don’t they? So it’s gonna be a minute.”

Shara watches him passively, waiting for him to get to the point.

“You though? You are going on an all-expenses paid vacation to scenic Belsavis. You know Belsavis, right? Oh, I know _you_ ’ve got files on Belsavis. Sent your bitch there once, didn’t you?” Trant smiles, his eyes scanning Shara’s face for a reaction. To her credit, she does not give him one.

“Now I’m sure you’re thinking, _you idiots, Cipher Nine’ll bust me out of Belsavis_. Well, you’re about the only one that would _tell_ her that’s where you are. And here’s the thing.” Trant leans closer, conspiratorially. “You’re gonna be frozen in carbonite, so it’s gonna be a little hard for you to get the message out.”

Shara leans forward to match Trant, dipping her head down for a beat before meeting his eyes. “With all due respect, Trant, and I believe the amount due here is none, _fuck you_.”

“You’re just a bucket of fun, aren’t you?” Trant sits back in his chair before waving two agents over. “Well, come on boys, let’s go ahead and get the _Keeper_ here on ice so we can get her on the next transport.”

As the two agents grab Shara’s arms and lift her to her feet, Trant laughs, finally seeing the reaction on her face he’d been hoping for. _Now? I’m being put in carbonite_ now?

“Yeah, you’re fun to talk to, but I’ve got a lot of paperwork to fill out to bag and tag a Director.” 

Still chuckling, Trant leads their small procession down a short hallway, through a series of security doors, into a carbonite freezing room. The agents lift Shara into the freezing chamber, and she doesn’t want to give Trant the satisfaction of seeing her struggle, but instinct makes her limbs fight. Trant nudges the agents out of his way, lays a heavy arm across Shara’s chest and shoulders, pressing against her hard until she stops moving. 

With his free hand, he removes the cuffs from her wrists. “Not worth it to fight, Shara. You can scream if you want to though. Won’t do you any good, but it might add something to the experience.”

 _Fuck his satisfaction_. Shara spits in his face. In a fluid motion, Trant steps back and activates the chamber. For Shara, everything goes white.

——

A year. A year of no word from Shara, of Intelligence fruitlessly chasing its own tail (and Raz feeling like she was doing the same on jobs no better than wild mynock chases), of no hint from the Dark Council of what they intend to do to actually _fix_ the mess, and the first whisper that might actually _be something_ leads her to Rishi. When the trail brings Raz to a decrepit warehouse populated by disgraced SIS agent Theron Shan and three Sith Lords—the supposed traitor, Lana Beniko, the Dark Councilor, Darth Nox, and the Emperor’s Wrath—she nearly walks out. There’s no way they could have anything that would help her or Intelligence.

And she’s right.

“Darth...Nox, is it?” Raz addresses the tall Rattataki woman leaning against the computer terminal. “Can you tell me _anything_ about the efforts to rebuild Intelligence?”

“I’m sorry, Cipher Nine, but no. My sphere is Ancient Knowledge. Intelligence is Zhorrid. And she’s worthless, you know that.” Nox lets out a short hum of laughter. Inclining her head toward the Pureblood Sith sitting at the table with Theron, she continues, “The Wrath and I are here to deal with the Revanites and clear Lana’s name.”

“Cipher, we’ve brought you here to ask for your help. There are some potential allies on these islands who might see any recruitment efforts from us—” Lana gestures to herself, Darth Nox, and the Wrath. “—as Sith bullying. But they might respond better to Cipher Nine’s...gentler touch.”

“I can’t really be the last decent operative left standing.”

Across the room, Theron snorts, and Raz makes a show of turning her full attention bodily toward Lana. Raz listens patiently while Lana explains their need to work with the Mandalorian clan on the island.

When Lana is finished, Raz bows theatrically toward the three Lords, prompting a chuckle from the Wrath. With her head low and an arm swept out to the side, she distantly thinks of the times that lack of appropriate respect toward the Sith has earned her a painful jolt of Force lightning, but it doesn’t stop her from mockingly intoning, “ _My Lords_.”

Turning to leave the room, she stops in front of Theron. “SIS, right?”

“Well, _former_ SIS, technically.”

“What do you know about the raid on Imperial Intelligence?”

Theron sets down the datapad he’s been working on. “I wasn’t part of that op, so I can’t really say.”

“But you were still with the SIS then, so you must know _something_.” Raz keeps her voice as level as she can, not wanting desperation or irritation to bleed out.

“Look, what I heard?” Theron leans back in his chair. “You guys were pretty easy to take down.”

« _Vizehn ravri'ihah_.» Walking away from him, Raz closes her eyes to try to block out Theron’s voice when he resumes his conversation with the Wrath, cursing herself for not just continuing to ignore him.

Raz’s holocommunicator chirps at her as she heads out of the safehouse to prepare to find the Mandalorian the locals call “Torch.” She stops in the hallway and activates the comm unit. The image of an unfamiliar droid appears, warning that encryption standards have not been met and interception of the call is likely. 

“I am only authorized to speak with the Red Blade. Are you the Red Blade?” the droid asks.

Raz raises an eyebrow, hesitates before dropping her voice to settle into the placeless accent she used a lifetime ago for the cover identity. “This is the Red Blade. What do you want, droid?”

“I cannot provide details over an unsecured channel. I’m sending you coordinates, Master Blade. Your loyal associate, Jheeg, awaits you there.”

 _Jheeg, huh? Clearly someone from Intelligence._ For an instant, Raz hopes that it is Shara, but she shakes the thought from her head. Shara is never this obvious. Regardless, Torch can wait. Lana can wait. Revan himself can wait. Lana and Theron have other resources at their disposal, and a small voice in the back of her head cries, _trap!_ but a stronger voice pushes it aside to furtively whisper, _a lead_!

The coordinates point to a cantina, and when Raz sees who is standing in the indicated room, her hands twitch, unsure whether she wants to draw her rifle, her holdout blaster, or one of the poison-tipped knives from her belt. The former Minister of Imperial Intelligence turns to face her, greets her as if they are friends, explains the jamming technology he has put in place in the suite to secure it. His voice is as calm and even as if neither of them had ever left Intelligence in their “official” capacities, as if Intelligence weren’t in shambles, as if she hadn’t taken out years of anger on him the last time they spoke.

“Sith Intelligence treating you well these days, Cipher?”

Raz has no patience for his small talk. “Weren’t you supposed to be hanged? You seem rather talkative and self-satisfied for a dead man.”

“As it turns out, there was concern that I had arranged for certain documents to be released in the event of my death, so I was granted early retirement instead.” The Minister smiles. “I’m here for a personal favor though.”

“I’m sorry, but given what you did to me when I was still taking your orders, _how_ do I owe you any personal favors?” Raz’s fingers still twitch at her sides to keep her discomfort from showing anywhere else.

The Minister loses his smug look. “For starters, we have a shared interest: the former Keeper and your former Watcher, Shara Jenn.”

Raz feels as though her heart has stopped beating. _Do not call her a “shared interest,”_ she wants to say. _Keep her name off of your treacherous tongue_ , she wants to hiss. _What do you mean, “_ former _” Keeper?_ she wants to ask. “Go on,” she whispers instead. The voluntary submission in her words feels worse than the stranglehold of the brainwashing ever did.

“During Lord Malgus’s uprising and the chaos it caused, the attack on Imperial Intelligence… From the operatives I’ve been able to locate and question about what really happened, she protected a lot of people. She was unable to protect herself though. Shara was captured by the Republic. I intend to free her.” The Minister turns back to face Raz and looks at her expectantly.

She can’t speak for a long moment. She just stands there holding a tight fist to her lips, knuckles paling to grey. “You know how important she is to me. Do you have a plan?”

“I’ve already made the arrangements. She was carbonite frozen almost immediately, but apparently the Republic is a little behind on their paperwork; she was only recently placed on a prison transport, which was raided by pirates and brought to Rishi. We just need to retrieve the body and erase the evidence. No one can know what happened.”

Raz blanches at the Minister’s use of the word “body,” as though Shara is dead. But truthfully, she knows carbonite freezing is a dangerous process, and with Shara having been frozen for so long… She can’t finish the thought.

“I’ll negotiate Shara’s purchase from the pirates while you provide leverage and cover our trail.” The Minister crosses his arms as he watches Raz take in the plan. “When we’re finished, I have information you’ll appreciate that I expect will make us even.”

The Minister lays out the details—locations of computer terminals Raz can slice into for information on pirate activity, how she’ll be able to monitor his negotiations, and that they’ll all meet back up once he has “acquired the carbonite,” as he so indelicately puts it. Raz is disturbed by his ability to discuss Shara so clinically, but she understands it. She holds up her end, stomach twisting as she listens on her earpiece to the Minister convincing pirates to sell him the most precious slab of carbonite in the galaxy.

——

Light, filtered at first and then blindingly white. Pain stabs through her head, making her clench her eyes shut, but it doesn’t stop the light. Shara chokes, has to guide herself through the act of breathing, and it burns her lungs. When she can feel her limbs again, there are hands on her and she’s being lifted, moved. She can’t see clearly, and she can hardly hear over the sound of blood rushing in her ears. 

Shara gasps at the pinch of a needle in her arm, a sensation that normally wouldn’t bother her, but not seeing it, not knowing what she’s being injected with—she flinches, tries to pull away, but her limbs are uncooperative and heavy. A voice near her head asks for someone to hold her still, and the hands on her comply. Another needle and another, Shara can’t fight them so she counts them, twenty-five of them. By the fourteenth, her vision is at least clearing and her fingers will flex when she asks them to.

There are five people standing over Shara, and their uniforms look medical but there are no insignias to identify them as Empire or Republic. The room is stark, sterile, clinical. There is nothing that immediately tells Shara where she might be, but it certainly doesn’t _look_ like Belsavis. The hands on her have relaxed their grip. She remembers to breathe. _Don’t panic. You’re panicking. Stop panicking._ She wants to slap herself, to snap out of her frightened animal stupor, but her body won’t listen yet.

“Shara?” The voice from near her head. “Can you try to sit up?”

With help from the hands on her, Shara sits and turns to face the speaker, an older woman whose appearance suggests she might be a doctor. Shara does not trust her.

“Shara, you were frozen in carbonite. You were rescued by the Minister of Intelligence and Cipher Nine—”

“Cipher Nine? Where is she?” Shara’s voice feels odd in her mouth, sounds off-pitch to her ears, like her head is under water. No one else’s voice sounds like that, so why is her own wrong?

“That’s not our concern. We’re here to help you. We’ve got some notes from the Minister for you about what’s happening, we can go through those now,” the woman continues as if Shara hadn’t interrupted her. “In the past few years, we’ve developed techniques to break the loyalty programming put in place by Project Protean and Project Cicerone. The Minister would like for you to have the chance to take advantage of these techniques.”

“And what if I don’t _want_ to take advantage of them?” Shara feels anger rising inside of her. The anger seems to help her voice level out toward normal, or maybe it’s just time helping the carbonite wear off.

“That’ll be your programming talking. Once we break it, you’ll have a freedom of choice that has never been available to you. I think you’ll find you like that.”

“I think you’ll find I like being told the truth.” Shara doesn’t like the edge in her voice, but she’s too tired to keep it out. “What about my choice not to be here? And where is Cipher Nine?”

“Shara, we’re going to need you to calm down—” A hand on her back, a condescending tone.

Shara whirls to face the new voice, to get the hand off of her. They’re being entirely too familiar here, and they’re trying to _change_ her, to _break_ her. She won’t let them; she grabs at the hand, clawing at it with her nails.

Another hand on her arm, another voice telling her to calm down as she twists and writhes from their grip, trying to stand, finding her legs blocked by someone’s body in her path, ending up just arching her back as far away from the hands on her as she can. A tighter grip on her arm as it is stretched out from her body, another needle, heat through her veins before collapsing against the arms behind her.

“Shara, sit up.”

Her body obeys, her back and neck stiffening to support her. The arms against her withdraw.

“Now, those are chemical restraints you’re under, and I’m sorry about that, but we do need you to calm down and relax. Once you do, we can let you speak with the Minister.”

Shara’s shoulders slump forward. Her muscles begin to relax as she listens to the woman’s voice, but she does not like how pliant and suggestible she feels.

“Can we give you the release so we can finish talking and call the Minister? It will take a few minutes for it to work, so the sooner the better. Nod if you’re going to behave.”

——

When Raz re-enters the former Minister’s secured suite, Shara’s image flickers over the holoterminal at the back of the room. Raz’s heart nearly stops at the sound of Shara’s voice when the Minister asks how Shara is feeling, and she finds that she can’t walk all the way into the room yet. She stands in the shadows, hardly breathing, gathering her courage.

“I’ve been thawed from carbonite, pierced by twenty-five needles, and injected with something I can only describe as liquid humiliation.” Shara shifts in place, glowering slightly at something or someone out of view of the camera on her end, and while she doesn’t say it, her tone suggests _how the_ fuck _do you think I’m feeling_?

“I’m pleased you’re doing well.” The Minister characteristically ignores Shara’s sarcasm with his own.

“I’m fine.” She glances around, beginning to look angry in earnest.

“You’re safe, and you’re going to be better soon.”

“I’d appreciate if you didn’t condescend to me, Sir.”

Raz is glad to hear that Shara still has her sense of humor about her situation, but fury churns in her gut at the way the Minister talks down to her. Finally regaining control of herself, Raz comes to the side of the holoterminal, but before Shara can see Raz, the Minister comms someone, ordering them to hold the transmission and the audio.

“What the fuck is this? You said we’d _all_ meet back here.” Raz glares at the Minister.

“Yes, I _lied_ ,” he says matter-of-factly. “She’s on her way to a private medical facility. Was I correct in assuming you wouldn’t approve?”

“I don’t work for you anymore, and you’re nowhere near as powerful as you think you are. What makes you think I won’t shoot you for lying to me?” The threat is empty; Raz feels no better for making it.

“I don’t doubt for a second that you would. But, Cipher, that doesn’t frighten me, and you know it.” He scowls at her for a moment before continuing. “The process will be slow and, regrettably, very painful, I’m told, but her loyalty programming will be undone. If it is successful, I have advised her not to rejoin the Empire, so that she may make a life for herself away from this conflict. She’s never had that chance before, and we can give it to her.”

“When _I_ had that chance, you told _me_ to keep working for the good of the Empire.” Raz wants to punch him but she’s too stunned to get her hands to listen to her.

“ _You_ signed up for this. _You_ chose this over and over again. _You_ made your choices knowing what you were getting into even after everything that happened. She never chose this.” The Minister’s lips draw into a tight, thin line while he considers his next thought. “And Cipher, I told you to erase yourself and fight for the Empire if you were so damn determined, but to do it with a clean slate. _You_ chose not to.”

Raz just continues to stare at him, feeling childlike in her anger at being unable to respond.

“It has to be like this. If you care for her, you’ll let them help her.”

“Just tell me where she is. Let me be with her.”

“Cipher, they’re going to break her loyalty to the Empire. There’s no scenario in which your presence there helps. But talk to her. Say your goodbyes if you like.” The Minister calls for the transmission to resume and steps out to allow Raz and Shara a modicum of privacy.

“Shara?” Raz has to fight to keep her voice from shaking.

“Cipher! It’s good to see you.” Shara has the tiniest hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth at the sight of Raz, but it quickly turns sad. “They said you helped me. But then, you weren’t here, and I thought… I don’t want to do this, Cipher. I don’t want them to de-condition me.”

Shara begs, and she sounds so sad and scared, and it hurts to tell her, “We both know that’s your programming talking. It wouldn’t be very good if it let you want this.” 

“You’re right, of course. Doesn’t help though.” _It’s more than that, and you know it_ , her eyes say.

Raz tries to tell her she doesn’t have to be afraid, knows before the words are out of her mouth that they are meaningless.

“I do though. They fucked around in my limbic system, didn’t they?” Shara smiles as though she’s made a joke. “I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you, Cipher. I should have been paying more attention.”

Staring up at Shara’s pale face, Raz just listens, tries to swallow, her mouth is suddenly so dry. What does Shara have to apologize for?

“And I’m all right...I am. I just don’t know who I’ll be... _without_. It’s all I am, all I’ve ever been. I can’t be anything but this.”

“Shara, you’re smarter than anyone else I’ve _ever_ met, and you’re very good at solving mysteries. You’ll figure it out.” Raz wants to say _you’ll still be you_ , but she can’t be certain, and she can’t risk saying anything to Shara that will turn out to be a lie.

“Maybe. But I hate mysteries.” Shara shuffles awkwardly in place. “Stay with me awhile? Please? Just talk with me.”

Raz steps close to the holoterminal. “Of course I will. As long as you want.”

“Cipher? No—Raz, I…” Shara’s voice shakes a little. “I love you. I don’t want to lose that.”

Raz can’t look at her; Shara has never said those words before. That can’t be her programming fighting for its life—it _can’t_ be. _Stars, let that be real_. “You don’t know how much I’ve wanted to hear you say that. I love you too, Shara. And if it’s true, you still will when you’re better. I just hope he’s right, and that this gives you a chance to be happy, Shara.”

Shara looks at Raz tenderly, but she looks hurt too. “I hope he’s right, too.”

After she has to let Shara go, Raz wants to kill the former Minister, to hurt him, to make him suffer. She wants to beat the coordinates for Shara’s location out of him so she can go to her. _There’s no scenario in which your presence there helps_. He could be lying, of course, but is it worth it to risk Shara? Instead, she makes him promise that Shara will be looked after and protected, no matter what. Shara must be his top priority. Raz will do anything he asks if he will do that.

All he wants is for her to consider his advice. She is set to be second-in-command to a Sith Lord in the rebuilding of Intelligence, and she needs to be sure it is done right. He claims to want the best not only for the Empire, but for her. Yet he treats her like a child and doesn’t trust her to see off the woman she loves in person without succumbing to the urge to whisk her away and disappear into the stars. He’s probably right not to, but that’s beside the point.

“I’ll take your advice into consideration, Sir. I hope you enjoy retirement. I really do.” Raz closes her eyes for a long moment before looking at the silent holoterminal where Shara’s image had flickered moments before. “But if I might not get to see her again, then for your sake, I hope I never see you again either.”

“Watch your back, Cipher. You may not have anyone else watching it for you.” The former Minister places a hand on her shoulder with a brief reassuring grip before leaving the room, and with the sudden realization that she can’t remember the last time she was _touched_ , Raz leans minutely but desperately against his hand. When he is gone, she sags against the holoterminal, hating herself that she would miss _his_ hand.

——

Shara wakes to find herself seated with her wrists and ankles restrained. The restraints are tight, but made of cloth, so while they are uncomfortable they are manageable. Her head throbs dully, there is an IV line in the back of one of her hands, and various monitoring lines disappear under the loose tunic she doesn’t remember changing into. She had been chemically restrained again after talking with Raz, having flown into a rage at what the Minister had done to them.

“Ah, Shara, you’re awake.” The woman who has spoken to Shara the most since her arrival, the apparent leader of the team, stands before her with a clipboard, taking notes on her vitals. Shara is sick of them continuously using her given name, without her knowing any of their names, designations, or even where they are from.

“Don’t worry about the restraints, just a protective measure. Sorry if you’ve got a bit of a headache—we put in an implant while you were out.” She checks Shara’s temple, making her wince.

Shara can hardly focus as the woman continues. The IV in her hand is an emetic agent, and the implant in her head is intended to mimic the effects triggered by disloyalty against her programming, and they’ll be pairing those effects with pro-Empire imagery. She calls it _positive punishment_. They will not _make_ her disloyal to the Empire, but they will trick her programmed brain into thinking she has been disloyal enough times that it will eventually overload the conditioning, and she will likely give up her loyalty to the Empire as a result of the treatment.

“There’s no physical risk though, and your vitals will be monitored at all times so that we can keep you in an acceptable range. You’ll have headaches, of course—that’ll be from the loyalty programming—but they’ll decrease over time as it degrades.” As she speaks, she fiddles with the settings on a monitor. “We’ve seen it happen naturally in particularly persistent subjects, and we’re just speeding up the process.”

While the woman speaks, Shara stares past her, not entirely taking in the information.

“You’re perfectly safe here, Shara. We’ll take good care of you, and soon you’ll be free from the Empire’s control over you.” She smiles at Shara, and Shara has never felt more unsafe. “Let’s begin.”

Shara tries to hold out for as long as she can, but she is not built to withstand pain. She was designed to analyze, to investigate, to absorb information. She remembers standing before the Dark Council, giving a report on the state of affairs in Intelligence, apparently not saying the right things at the right times, being given a storm of Force energy that brought her to her knees before the Councillors, made her taste metal and ozone on the back of her tongue, made her almost beg to die. Shara is not sure which pain is worse.

After two days of “therapy,” Shara gets her answer. They begin including images of Cipher Nine—of Raz—in their pro-Empire imagery, and the pain is worse than anything she has ever felt, and Shara begs them, _show me anything but her, take anything but her, please don’t taint my memories of her_.

“According to your file, Cipher Nine is one of your strongest ties to the Empire; breaking that tie could mean huge progress for you. Besides, she would never give up her loyalty to the Empire, not even for you.”

Shara screams until her throat is raw, from pain, from anger, from _sadness_ at what they’re trying to take from her, and because it’s a distraction from what they’re doing. For _days_ all she has felt is pain-anger-fear-hurt-sick-weak and suddenly there is a whisper of _something else_. Days of them tricking her brain into thinking she is disloyal for hours on end, tears staining her face and fighting back a wave of nausea—there’s nothing left inside to keep down but bile anyway—and the technician monitoring her places a hand over hers, tells her to just stop fighting it, and the touch that might have been meant to comfort is repulsive but she can’t move away from it, and she feels something breaking inside of her, she can hear it cracking and groaning like a dam that’s been holding _something_ back.

So Shara opens her mouth to shriek at him, but the sound that comes out is deep and unholy, and he falls away from her covering his ears with his hands, and when he pulls them away there is blood on his palms and trickling from his ears, and when he looks back at Shara there is fear in his eyes. Her restraints have come loose, when did they come loose? Shara quickly disentangles her limbs from the bindings, pulls the IV line out of her hand as gently as she can. The technician triggers a panic alarm that sends more members of the team in and Shara doesn’t even think, just throws her hand out toward them and clenches her fist, one of them stopping short, gasping, clawing at her throat. How many times has Shara watched this happen to a colleague and thought it beastly (yet done nothing to stop it)?

Kicking and punching oncoming technicians away from her, Shara remembers the very basic sparring training that she received with Intelligence, but she doesn’t remember ever _enjoying_ it—the crack of a nose breaking under her fist, the sudden rush of blood on the gasping face, even the flash of pain from her knuckles radiating through her wrist. Shara feels _alive_ in a way she hasn’t in a long time, and she isn’t sure what to do with the feeling.

A guard rushing in the door is too slow drawing his blaster and Shara wrestles it away from him, taking him out with his own weapon. Taking another member of the therapy team down with a choke, certain that she feels the life leaving them, eyes wide and panting, exhilarated and terrified, having never really felt _power_ before, Shara wonders if her childhood handlers knew when they were perfecting her conditioning what they were locking away.

When Shara gets out of the facility, she is stopped by how _bright_ it is, and the air feels so dry compared to her lifetime on Dromund Kaas. The shocking oranges and browns, the tall thin grasses, the _flatness_ of the expanse before her make her realize that she has no idea what her plan is. Blinking rapidly in the harsh light and glancing around, she spots a landing pad beside the building with a few small, nondescript shuttles. None of them look any more complicated than anything Shara has flown before.

The shuttle Shara picks doesn’t have a _lot_ stored in its navicomputer, but it shows the current location as Maridun, which doesn’t immediately ring any bells for her, so she files the name away to look into later. And it has Dromund Kaas, with an estimate of just over a day of travel time. As she locks in the coordinates, and finalizes the launch sequence, Shara realizes that she does not have landing clearance codes. But that is a problem she will have to deal with later, she thinks, as she tucks her legs up onto her chair, curling into herself. She sleeps fitfully like this for a few hours.

On approach to Dromund Kaas, Shara decides how to deal with her lack of current landing codes. She knows at least one set of outdated Intelligence clearance codes, and since she looks the part, why not play the role of a haggard operative returning from an entirely-too-long-in-the-field mission? Leaning over the terminal and keeping a hand over her face, she argues back and forth with the Port Authority, but telling them she has the Minister of Intelligence’s direct frequency, or that of several Dark Councillors, and would gladly ring them up gets her the clearance to land.

Once on the ground, Shara does her best to wipe the data from the shuttle’s navicomputer, but still makes a point of making it obvious-but-not-too-obvious that the shuttle’s owner will not be back for some time, hoping one of the city’s gangs might steal it and scrap it.

She can’t go home, she realizes. She probably can’t just walk back into Intelligence either. Shara wants to go home, and she _never_ wants to go home; the Republic attacked her home and the place in Kaas City where she had once felt safest. 

_Raz is safe_. Shara doesn’t know where Raz is, or how long it’s been since she spoke to Raz on Rishi, but she does know that Raz makes her feel safe, and she wants to see her Cipher again.

Raz’s flat is not far from the city center. Getting there, Shara is thankful for her disheveled appearance making her less recognizable by anyone she passes or by the city’s security drones and cameras. Standing at the door to the flat, Shara realizes that while she has a physical key, she does not have it with her, and while she knows the passcodes for the digital locks, her mind is not in the right state to remember the full sequences. Shara is thankful to know that Raz’s flat is secure when she is gone for extended periods, but infuriated by the complicated slicing she has to do to override the locks. After getting inside the flat and resetting the locks, Shara finds a datapad and sends Raz a message with their usual encryption scheme: “please come home.”

Shara stands in the doorway to Raz’s bedroom for a long moment, realizing how odd it feels to be in Cipher Nine’s flat without her. Shaking off the feeling, she crosses to the dresser, where Raz had recently reserved a drawer for Shara to leave things for the rare nights she was able to stay. She didn’t realize how good it would feel to shed the starchy hospital garb in exchange for a set of her own pyjamas. Shara crawls onto the bed and clutches one of Raz’s pillows to her chest, pressing her face into it to see if she can still smell Raz on it, a tired ache settling into her bones.

This time, when Shara wakes, it is to the sound of Raz softly calling her name. A welcome sound, but there is a note of fear in her voice—Shara’s short message combined with the picked locks probably did not paint the best picture for her. Between the moonlight and the gentle red glow of Raz’s eyes, there’s enough light for Shara to see that Raz has a knife held out in a tight fist that trembles slightly as she crosses the bedroom. Shara thanks the stars it’s a knife and not her gun.

When Raz is close, Shara looks up, desperate to meet her eyes in the dark. Raz stops short, her red eyes widening as she whispers Shara’s name again, but this time it’s a question, and there’s still that hint of fear. Then Raz is stepping backward, her voice breaking around the word “No,” as she scrambles away from the bed, nearly pitching herself into the ‘fresher and slapping at the light switch before gripping the edge of the counter and standing over the sink, gulping for air.

Confused, hurt, Shara sits for a moment before following, and finds Raz whispering under her breath, “- _not real, it can’t be real, it was a trick of the light_ -”

Shara stands uncertainly behind her, hovering, wanting to press her body against Raz, to comfort them both. But just as her hand touches Raz’s shoulder, she catches her own eyes in her reflection, her eyes that are now golden. Leaping away from each other as if the touch had been electric, Shara falls in a heap against the open door and Raz slides to the floor against the tub, and they stare at each other, horrified. 

Raz doesn’t need to speak for Shara to know what she is thinking, it’s clear on her face: _it’s a trick of some kind, someone’s in my head again, that’s_ Shara, _she can’t be Sith, how could_ she _be Sith_? Shara can’t think past the bewildered realization that with very limited exceptions, Raz _hates_ the Sith, and Shara had not yet considered that she might be one.

——

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all I know, Marcus Trant is actually a lovely fellow, but for my purposes, the fact that he was never fleshed out in-game is perfect, because having him be an absolute dickbag works really well.

**Author's Note:**

> (friendly disclaimer that non-OCs in this story belong to BioWare/EA/the StarWars folks. Raz is mine, and believe it or not I am a little bit sorry for doing this to her and Shara. Two other OCs of mine, my Inquisitor/Nox, Sija, and my Warrior/Wrath, Mena, made the briefest little cameos as well.)
> 
> Thank you for coming along on this adventure to explore how Shara's loyalty programming might have been broken, which really only ended up actually being written because I found Shara's face on the character creator screen and made her as a Marauder Warrior and fell into a deep what-if hole on the origins of Mara!Shara. I honestly don't know what's next for Raz and Shara. I hope they'll tell me.
> 
> Also, for all I know, Marcus Trant might be a lovely person, but the fact that he's not all that well fleshed-out in-game made him perfect for my needs in this story.
> 
> Special thanks to my beta readers, MissSpookyEyes and SunsetOfDoom, for helping me make this mess semi-coherent.
> 
> Oh yeah, the thing Raz says to Theron is "get fucked" in Cheunh.


End file.
